


Dull Scissors in the Yellow Light

by ccbytheseashore



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff, Haircuts, Idiots in Love, M/M, more like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7278646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccbytheseashore/pseuds/ccbytheseashore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Cut it off.”<br/>Clint shook his head. “Cut what off?”<br/>“My hair. You hate it, cut it.”<br/>Clint stared at Barnes, whose scowl had softened minutely into something closer to a small frown. “I'm not cutting your hair.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dull Scissors in the Yellow Light

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small thing that I wrote while I was supposed to be working on my senior thesis. I've been nervous about posting it, but the Winterhawk fandom is such a special and wonderful fandom and I really wanted to give something back to them. So here is the obligatory haircut fic.
> 
> Much love to Katya for the encouragement and for letting me bounce ideas off of her all the time. Title shamelessly lifted from Regina Spektor's Samson. All mistakes are mine.

Clint Barton woke up with a start. His skin felt sticky, his hair damp, his mood irritable. Sweat pooled and cooled in the creases of his limbs, and his sheets were twisted at the foot of his bed. He stared at the cracks in the ceiling, the room mostly absent of ambient noise without his hearing aids. It was so hot. 

Nights like this were the worst. The building was old, no central air, and the window units were feebly wheezing thin wuffs of stale cool-ish breeze. He had opened the window, but was met with the same wall of humidity in his apartment. Resigned, Clint pushed himself out of bed and went downstairs. 

He shuffled blearily into the kitchenette and absently set about making coffee. Just as he put the carafe onto the heating plate, he noticed movement from the other side of the room. He paused, then pressed the button on the coffee maker. 

“I don't have my ears in. You up proper, Barnes?” The lump on the couch shifted, stood, and then nodded. “Coffee?”

Bucky Barnes settled himself onto one of the stools at the counter and leaned forward, his dark hair falling forward and obscuring his face. Clint sighed. 

“Can't very well make you anything if I can't see you ask for it.” Barnes shook his hair back and looked at Clint, a small scowl on his face. “When are you gonna cut that hair of yours?” 

Barnes had been here for a week now, and while scowling had turned out to not actually be his default setting, it wasn't an uncommon sight. Scowling and hiding in his curtain of stupid hair, which was marginally less bad now that it was being washed regularly but was still too long. Coupled with Barnes apparent distaste for properly formed consonants and opening his damn mouth, Clint was having a hard time communicating. 

When Stark asked Clint to take in Barnes, Clint was hesitant to agree. His loft wasn't a palace by any stretch, and his building was meant to not actually be a thing that the other Avengers knew about – not that that had ever stopped Clint from taking advantage of Tony's superior electronics skills and bank account balance, or Tony from crashing on Clint's couch when that had turned into a night of drinking. Clint usually had beer and Stark was always happy to contribute to Clint's poor life choices, see re: 'superior bank account balance.'

But Barnes was another matter altogether. 

Tony insisted that it was for the good of the team, for the good of Barnes, who could definitely use good right now after everything he had been through. Besides, if living with Steve was tough for Tony, it was doubly tough for Barnes, who had enough issues to sort through without Steve hovering and projecting manful pain on everyone in his immediate vicinity. Clint's argument was weak, at best, especially when Stark came to the table with healing and safety and home, which Clint worried about more than he was comfortable admitting. He held his own, though; Stark agreed to lend him his considerable legal team's expertise in sorting out the legal nonsense around owning a building. Plus, he had mentioned something about scholarships for some of the kids in the building, something to ease their parents minds, and hell if Clint could say no to that. 

He should have said something about the AC, though. 

Clint started rummaging through the drawers in the kitchen. He probably had a rubber band around, and maybe he could at least get Barnes to get his futzing hair out of his futzing face so that they could have a conversation like normal people surely do. He was shuffling through a pile on the counter when he felt a hand on his arm. He looked up. 

“Cut it off.” 

Clint shook his head. “Cut what off?”

“My hair. You hate it, cut it.” 

Clint stared at Barnes, whose scowl had softened minutely into something closer to a small frown. “I'm not cutting your hair.” Barnes looked at his hands, hair falling into his eyes again, and muttered something indistinguishable. Clint threw his hands into the air.

Barnes looked at him crookedly, his eyes bright even despite the heavy dark circles around them, and said, “I said that if you don't cut it, I will.” His lip curled into a smirk, “and I dunno about you, but I wouldn't wanna be the guy that had to tell Steve that he left me alone with somethin' sharp in the middle of the night when I was askin' for help.” 

It was Clint's turn to scowl now. “It's three in the morning.”

Barnes shrugged. 

Clint sighed, and went to the stairs to get his hearing aids. It really was too damned hot. His fingers ached, his skin felt tight and itchy stretched across his joints. Sweat beaded at his temple, and he wiped it away, reaching for the small case on the side table. When he returned to the kitchen, Barnes had settled more surely on the barstool, watching Clint intently. 

“So lemme get this straight. You want me to cut your hair, right now, in the kitchen?” Clint asked. 

Barnes nodded.

“I thought that's what you said. Which is ridiculous. You want me to cut your hair?”

Barnes rolled his eyes and nodded again. 

“And this can't wait until the barber opens? I'm sure Stark would love to buy you a haircut, a nice fancy one with a smock and hot towels and... pomade or... whatever..,” Clint trailed off. He wasn't sure what the difference between a fancy haircut and the one that he got down the block was, it couldn't be that different? 

Barnes was staring at him, a small furrow forming between his brows. 

Clint let out a small huff. “Right. 's your head, I guess... this isn't because I bullied you into it or whatever, is it?”

Barnes arched a brow. Right. As though Clint could bully him into anything he didn't want to do.

Clint went over to the counter, where a pair of scissors was balanced on a stack of papers. Coffee, books, and paper newspapers, that's all Barnes ever asked for really. He liked to sit on the couch, straight up and down with Lucky at his feet, and read. Clint watched him sometimes, face relaxed and open as he'd ever seen it, shifting only slightly to shake out the paper or turn a page, or to skritch behind Lucky's ear with a bare toe. The three of them had spent most of the last week in companionable silence on that couch, Barnes handing Clint the funny pages and the sports section when he was finished, Clint holding them and pretending to read, mostly enjoying how easily Barnes had settled into his life. Other times he just slept. He always woke up with a blanket tucked around his feet and a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen. 

Everything was easy if you didn't talk about it. 

Clint picked up the scissors and examined them. 

“Can't imagine these'll be very sharp. Sure you can't wait until tomorrow?” Clint waved the scissors. 

Barnes arched a brow and gestured vaguely at Clint, a sort of 'get-on-with-it' roll of his hand. Clint picked up the scissors and a hair tie that he had spotted in the stack, probably left behind by Kate the last time that she was doing... whatever she does at the counter. Drinking his coffee. Questioning his life choices. 

“Right. So... I haven't done this since I was a kid, and well, I didn't have a lot of hair as a kid. Can't be that hard, right?” When Barnes didn't make to answer, Clint looped the hair tie over the bunch of hair he held in his hand. _Just... cut it at the ponytail, right?_ With a little effort the whole lot of hair came off into his hand. He looked at Barnes, a little stunned, but he had gone mostly still and silent, staring intently at a spot on the wall ahead of him.

 _What the hell was he supposed to do now?_ He held the hair in his hand, looking around for an answer. 

Clint gingerly set the ponytail of hair onto the countertop and cast about for something to cover the floor. Barnes startled for a moment, cutting a quick glance at Clint. Clint spread newspaper haphazardly across the floor and looked at Barnes. His dark hair was hanging in jagged angles around his face.

“So, uh... how short are you thinking?” Clint rubbed at his neck.

Bucky let out a harsh sound that might have been the beginning of a laugh. “Maybe shoulda asked that before you hacked it off?” 

“Hey, hey man. You're the one who said cut it!” Clint felt punch drunk. This was probably the most that they had spoken, ever. 

Barnes snorted, and resumed staring at the wall. “Just... cut it. Shorter.” Clint took a long breath and held it for a moment, blowing it out slowly as he considered the man in front of him. He had showered earlier in the evening but he didn't seem to have shaved, the dark stubble on his sharp jaw accentuated by the pallor of his sweat-damp skin. He held himself rigid, but his face was relaxed, the lines in his forehead less prominent and his mouth soft. He looked so young. 

A siren sounded in the distance. Voices called out to each other outside. The neighbor's television murmured through the thin walls. Lucky sighed soft huffs from where he slept by the door. Barnes looked at Clint, and Clint cleared his throat. 

“Okay. Shorter.” 

Clint stepped closer to Barnes and carefully took a lock of hair between his forefinger and middle finger. He took a deep breath, and then cut. Then he took another lock, and cut again. 

Clint ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of Barnes's neck, checking the taper of his cut. Barnes shivered. 

Clint felt his chest constrict, air tight in his chest as he eyed the man in front of him through strands of hair. 

The jagged lines became neater as Clint slowly and methodically cut, leaning in close to view his work. Barnes smelled a little like sweat, a little like clean sheets, and a little like the plain white bar soap that Clint kept in the shower. His skin was warm and damp in the humid summer night. Clint was acutely aware of how close they were, Barnes on the stool and Clint standing behind his broad warm back, forearms resting on solid shoulders, hands in Barnes's soft, dark snarls of hair as he cut, cut, cut. The proximity and physicality felt heady.

“Just the front now,” Clint said quietly. Barnes nodded, his jaw a little slack. He had closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly and evenly.

“You alright?” Clint murmured. 

Barnes hummed, his eyes still closed. 

“We can stop.” 

Barnes's eyes fluttered open, meeting Clint's gaze with steady, stormy blue eyes. “No,” he said hoarsely, “'m fine. Keep goin'.” 

Clint hesitated, chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Barnes chuckled softly. “Seriously, Barton. Last guy who got this close to my neck with a sharp object wasn't nearly as gentle as you.” 

“Bet you weren't gentle with him either.”

“Didn't have much incentive, I guess.” Barnes smirked. 

Clint snorted. “I'm sure you didn't.” Barnes tangled his flesh-and-blood hand into the front of his hair. 

“Leave a little bit on top? Something I can put a comb through?” 

“Sure thing, Barnes.” 

“You don't have to call me Barnes, you know.” Clint brushed a stray clipping of hair from Barnes's shoulder. 

“What d'you want me to call you?” 

“My friends call me Bucky.” 

“Is that what we are?” 

Barnes shrugged.

Clint kinda got that. He took another lock of hair between his fingers, considered. 

“You'd have to call me Clint.” 

“Yeah, alright. Clint.” Barnes – no, Bucky's mouth turned up at the corner, just a bit. Nearly a smile. Clint resumed cutting, mostly to have something to do with his hands. His face felt hot. 

All that he had left was the very front. 

He paused in front of Bucky's knees, his brow furrowed. 

Bucky watched him with narrowed eyes. “You're thinking too much.”

Clint began to laugh, the whole situation suddenly seeming incredibly funny. This whole night had been so futzing ridiculous. 

Clint wiped the sweat off of his forehead with the hem of his t-shirt. “Just this bit left in the front. Lemme in.” He elbowed his way between Bucky's legs, bit his lip, and concentrated on snipping just right. Bucky settled a hand on Clint's hip, steadying him as he trimmed.

Clint smiled and stepped back. He walked around the bar stool slowly, checking that everything was more-or-less even. 

“You clean up alright, Buck,” Clint blew a few bits of hair off of Bucky's neck, “Nice to see a face hiding under all of that hair.” 

Bucky raised a hand to his head. Clint caught his wrist and tugged him up. 

“C'mere, I'll show you.” Clint led Bucky up the stairs to the bathroom. Bucky looked at himself for a moment. He smiled at their reflections in the mirror and bumped his shoulder against Clint's. 

“You done alright, Clint.” 

“You got an alright face. Wanna watch some bad infomercials 'til we fall asleep on the couch?” 

“I'm... not even sure what that is?”

“Oh, they're great, you'll love 'em. Slap Chop, man. The future is now.” 

“Sure thing, Clint.” 

=

Soft morning light began to filter into the loft. Cars honked their horns outside the window. People shouted across the street. Clint blinked awake. The television was still on but turned low, the closed captions on. The last thing that he remembered was Bucky leaning close, murmuring something in his ear about some stupid product that the ad man was trying to sell; they must have fallen asleep. Bucky was sprawled across Clint's chest. At some point in the night, he had tangled his metal fingers with Clint's. 

Clint felt Bucky shift slightly, before he went completely still.

“Go back to sleep,” Clint mumbled, gently rubbing the nape of Bucky's neck, suddenly very pleased that he hadn't removed his hearing aids, no matter how much it sucked to sleep with them in. Bucky leaned into the touch. This was probably a bad idea, but Clint was known for those. He felt Bucky nudge his face into the crook of his neck, his lips barely brushing Clint's skin as he breathed. 

“I gotta get up, Clint.” 

“No you don't.” 

“I don't wanna,” Bucky conceded, pressing his lips gently to the juncture where Clint's neck met his shoulder. 

“Then don't.”

“'m not gonna.”

“Hey,” Clint murmured, voice still heavy with sleep, “I'll still be here when you get back.” 

Bucky blew out a breath. “Yeah?”

“But you can stay. If you want.”

Clint felt Bucky's weight shift and settle more soundly onto his chest. Clint wrapped his arm around him, pulled him close, kissed the top of his head.

“Your hair looks like shit, Barnes,” he said into Bucky's hair with a grin. 

"Dunno. I kinda like it."


End file.
